Page 29 of The Gilded Ones

She wraps her arms around her body, a defiant gesture despite the uncertainty, the shame, now flickering in her eyes.

The matron walks over to her and lifts her chin with the butt of her whip. “I heard it said there was a troublemaker among you,” she says in a heavily accented voice, rs and ls rolling like waves across her tongue. “It must be you. Tell me, alaki, why do you refuse to heed my order?”

“I don’t wish to disrobe,” Belcalis grits out.

“A modest one, are you?” the matron sneers.

“If it pleases you.”

“It pleases me for you to disrobe!”

I hear the stick before I see it, a low whooping sound through the air, just as its weighted hilt cracks into Belcalis’s back. She lets out a hollow, gasping sound as she falls to the floor, golden blood spurting down her back. Air catches in my throat. That walking stick isn’t a stick, it’s a rungu – a club soldiers throw at opponents. I’ve seen one in action before, witnessed Father practising with it and the many other weapons he kept from his time in the army. His, however, didn’t have barbs on the weighted end for ripping into flesh and bone the way the matron’s does.

So this is how they will keep us in line.

The matron walks over, puts her foot on Belcalis’s back, pressing her deeper into the floor. Belcalis grunts, pained, but the matron doesn’t move her foot. She just smirks down at her, a chilling look in her eyes.

“Insolent beast,” she sneers, ripping the rungu out.

I clap my hands over my mouth, stomach lurching as more golden blood goes spurting into the air. The sight of all that blood is sickening, but even worse is what’s underneath: a mass of scars, each one layered so thickly across Belcalis’s back, even the rungu’s barbs couldn’t penetrate completely. Now I understand why she seems so defiant, why she doesn’t retreat when threatened by authority. She’s used to being beaten, bled – even starved. Her exposed ribs, gaunt spine, and flat, removed expression all tell a story, one of unspeakable horror.

Is that the way I looked in the cellar – that detachment, that resignation?

The matron grows impatient. She strokes the rungu again. “You will not listen, alaki?” she sneers. “You will not follow the path? Then I suppose I will just have to beat you across it.” She raises the stick again, and Belcalis flinches.

It’s a broken, ugly movement.

“No!” I gasp before I can stop myself. “Please don’t hurt her.”

The matron turns to me, a chilling expression of amusement on her face. “What’s this? The troublemaker has a friend.” Abandoning Belcalis, she walks over to me. Now I see her face close up, jaw squat and severe, nose blade-thin. Her brows furrow, those tiny eyes gleaming under them. “You have a familiar look about you,” she murmurs. “Have we met before?”

I shake my head.

“Part your lips and speak up, alaki.”

Terror dries my throat, but I somehow find the strength to swallow. “No. We’ve never met,” I rasp.

She humphs. “Very well, then,” she says. “Now, you had something to say about your friend. What was it again?”

My eyes flicker to the golden blood snaking across the stones. I remember that blood, remember how it pooled around me in the cellar… “Don’t hurt her…please,” I whisper.

I swallow to push back the darkness as the matron steps closer, strokes my neck with the weighted end of her rungu. Her tiny eyes gleam when she notices me wince from the barbs. “I didn’t mean to offend,” I croak, “only to say that Belcalis is very…devout. She’s not used to being bared near others.”

“Devout?” The matron guffaws at my lie. “As if Oyomo would give His attention to any of you infernal beasts.” As I wince at this insult, she turns to Belcalis, a thin smirk slicing her lips. “And you – so your name is Belcalis. That’s good to know.”

Across the room, Belcalis shoots me a baleful glare, and alarm ripples over me. I didn’t mean it, I try to explain with my eyes.

The matron approaches her again, but this time, one of the assistants steps in front of her and respectfully bows her head. “Matron Nasra, the hour approaches. The karmokos await you.”

Matron Nasra huffs. “Very well. Ensure that the girls are all clean, especially her” – she points at Belcalis – “and give them all the closest of shaves. There will be no lice in the Warthu Bera,” she barks as she walks out.

Once she leaves, the assistant who spoke turns to the girls. “Wash yourselves, hurry now. Time grows short.” She directs another assistant towards Belcalis. “Take her to a private chamber. I’ll not have cursed gold in the water.”

The assistant bows, escorting Belcalis out. “Yes, ma’am,” she says.

When they pass me, Belcalis catches my eye. “Next time you have the urge to aid me – don’t,” she hisses.

Then she’s gone, and the rest of the girls, including me, enter the water. One of the assistants approaches with a blade and scrapes it over my head. I try not to see the curly strands of black hair falling into the water, try not to give in to the tears pricking at my eyes. I don’t even know what to think any more. Exhaustion, emotion, the gilding…they all overwhelm me now, making me teary-eyed with confusion.

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